


Where the Wild Things Are

by innerdialogue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerdialogue/pseuds/innerdialogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, son of the Southern King, ventures north into the Wilds seeking aid for his father's kingdom from the werewolves said to still be living in the dark places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Wild Things Are

**Author's Note:**

> A writing assignment that turned into fic that will probably never be finished. Just thought I'd share.

It had been snowing for three days. Three days of nothing but the endless, white expanse that was the Northern Wilds in winter. These mountains were dangerous this time of year—those few travelers who chose to brave the wintery conditions went missing all the time, only to be found much later in the spring when the snow melted and their corpses washed down river—and if one wasn’t careful they would make a wrong turn and be lost among the giant trees. Winter expeditions required guides in order to avoid an icy death.

Stiles adjusted the thick fur collar of his coat, pulling it tight around his body. The heavy bear skin was thick and warm, but he couldn’t help but shiver despite its weight. He was from the south, near Elyssia, and he wasn’t used to the cold. The gray, bleak sky and the massive, icy banks made him long for the gentle breezes and sunny beaches of his home, but no matter how much he wished for it, Stiles’ warm thoughts had no effect on reality. 

“All right there, your highness?” Isaac asked as he trudged through the snow ahead of Stiles. Having grown up near the Northern Wild, he was used to the frigid climate. He wore furs, of course, but they were thinner than the ones Stiles wore, and not for the first time did Stiles curse the fact that Isaac was so at home. “Not catching a chill, I hope.”

“Oh, n-no,” Stiles replied, his teeth chattering. “P-perfectly fine, this weather. I only wish we had brought a p-picnic.”

Isaac laughed, a sharp bark, and grinned. Through the snow Stiles thought he saw his guard’s teeth glint in the watery sunlight. “Good. We’re almost to the camp. It won’t be much longer.”

Thanks the gods for that, Stiles thought, rubbing his gloved hands together. He wanted nothing more than to strip off his heavy, sodden clothes and slip into a nice, hot bath. He would ask that the water be as hot as he could stand, perhaps more, and he would not care if they cut up carrots and potatoes and made soup out of him. At least he would be a warm soup.

He and his guide were not alone. Behind them trudged Scott, his personal body guard and three of his father’s soldiers. It was a small caravan, hardly well protected in case of attack, but Stiles had convinced the king that someone would be insane to lay waiting in the show to attack them on their way up the mountain. If it was unbearable for them, it would be, too, for bandits and highway men, so there would be no need to bring an entire security detail. Not to mention moving an entire company of men up this gods-forsaken hill would next to impossible. Five of them were having enough trouble as it was.

“Are you sure we’re headed in the right direction?” Stiles asked.

“Of course, I know,” Isaac replied. “I’ve been in these woods as long as I—“

There was a loud TWACK as the arrow struck Isaac’s shoulder. The force of it sent him spinning to the ground. Stiles yelled for him and moved to catch him, but Scott grabbed his shoulders and forced him to the ground. He drew his sword. The soldiers surrounded Stiles, drawing their weapons in turn and lifting their iron shields to their chests.

“Is it bandits?” one of the soldiers asked. He was young, and as he looked at him, Stiles couldn’t help but think of a scared little boy who wearing his father’s armor to play pretend. He was shaking in his armor and furs.

“This far north?” another scoffed. “We’re the only ones foolish enough to freeze our balls off out here.”

“Shut up,” Scott barked. He tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s here.”

Scott was right. Even as he spoke, men emerged from the trees, each carrying a sword or axe. They were ugly, Stiles thought, and their state of dress and cleanliness matched everything he had ever been told about bandits and more.

“Well, well, well,” the leader said. He rested crossbow he had used to Isaac on his shoulder. “What do we have here? Seems to me like we’ve found some lost little travelers, doesn’t it, boys?”

Scott pointed with his blade. “We’re simply passing through. Leave us alone, and we will be out of your way quickly enough.”

The bandit leader grinned, and Stiles could see several gaps in his smile. “I don’t think so, gentleman. I don’t know whether or not you are aware of it, but it’s dangerous to be so far out here.”

“A little cold won’t stop us,” Stiles snapped, rubbing ineffectually at his elbow. There would be a bruise.

“Stiles, please,” Scott said. “Don’t antagonize the bandits.”

The heat bandit sneered with the few teeth he had left and stepped forward. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever menacing thing he attempted to say was lost when a deep, guttural roar shook the very air around them.

Stiles froze when he saw the creature loom behind the bandits. Its eyes blazing as red as hellfire, the monster swept the nearest bandit to the side, sending the man careening into the tree line. It fell on the next, teeth sinking into an unprotected shoulder, and tearing skin and muscle away. 

The bandits broke ranks, each tripping over their own feet as they slipped and slid on the icy ground, trying to escape the enraged werewolf. Watching them escape into the trees, the werewolf lifted its head and howled triumphantly.

At its feet, the bandit leader was still alive. Raising his crossbow—the crossbow that most likely shot Isaac, Stiles realized—he aimed up at the werewolf. With a snarl, the beast lunged forward, knocking the crossbow away, and lifted the man up from the ground. It held him aloft for a long, terrifying moment and then tore the man’s throat out. With his teeth.

Dropping the fresh corpse into the snow, the werewolf turned to regard Stiles and his party. Scott raised his sword again, as if it would do more than the bandits’ own weapons, but Stiles grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back as the werewolf stalked over to where Isaac lay in the snow.

"Is he alright?” Stiles asked. Werewolves weren’t unknown in the Northern Wilds. The stories told in the tavern that Stiles’ father pretended his son didn’t visit said that they had retreated to the wild places, where the trees grew to touch the night sky and where wolves could run for miles as they hunted. The curious part of Stiles, perhaps the largest part of Stiles, was intrigued.

“He’s fine,” the werewolf said. Its voice surprised Stiles. It was neither as low and guttural as he had expected nor was it hindered by the large, sharp fangs in its—his—mouth. He reached down and hauled Isaac into a sitting position. Isaac coughed twice and gasped for breath. He pulled open his furs, revealing a large dent in his chest plate. “He just let his guard down.”

“They had a crossbow!”

“You should have seen, heard, or smelled them coming.”

“My name is Stiles,” Stiles said, stepping forward. He studied the large brute of a man, watching as the wolf’s features melted away to reveal a strong jaw and straight nose.

“Derek,” the werewolf grunted. “Now, get out of my territory.”


End file.
